Da steht auch ein Mensch
by thursdayplaid
Summary: Jim Moriarty Criminal Investigative Specialist and his associate Dr. John Watson have found themselves very suddenly in a world where he is an evil genius and John lives with the enemy.
1. Chapter 1

Da steht auch ein Mensch und starrt in die Höhe,  
>Und ringt die Hände, vor Schmerzensgewalt;<br>Mir graust es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe -  
>Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt.<p>

Jim and John again shoulder to shoulder went into the fray. They had done this before, beat the odds. They had survived an explosion in a pool (Jim's suit had not ever really recovered, which was a tragedy, it was a Westwood) and gangs of red headed people and crazy American actresses. But this was the end. If they survived this Jim was going to finally accept that job with Cambridge and was never doing his own field work ever again. Never think about Sherlock Holmes again. He didn't care what John did as long as it was _survive._

Jim hadn't wanted John to come, he was still afraid for him; he remembered the awful, terrifying blood, the feeling of concrete dust under his knees. But John Watson wasn't going to let his friend go and face one of the maddest men in the world without back up. "You don't have to do this," Jim told him softly, his fingers touching the clenched fist around John's gun. The skin was pulled so tight and smooth he wondered if John could feel his fingerprints. Jim snorted a quick little laugh, Jim and John touching hands in the dark, no wonder everyone thought they were together.

"What?" John said looking at him like he had gone mad. Madder.

"Holding hands in the dark."

John looked down where their hands were touching and grinned at him, that real grin from before the two awful masks of pain and exhaustion had taken over his face.

"What'll they say at the Yard?"

They giggle briefly and then they're into the fray.

* * *

><p>Jim stops him one last time to look at him, in case they don't make it. In case he doesn't make it, because it's not acceptable if John isn't around when Jim is. Simply unacceptable. "We'll stop him John; we won't let Holmes hurt anyone else."<p>

"Sometimes I play music in the middle of the night. Really loud. And I don't like mess, sometimes I hoover three times a day. I don't like chaos. And I'll be sleeping everywhere," he's bouncing on the balls of his feet as he texts away. He prefers calling, something Lestrade is trying to break him of, but he can't talk to potential flatmates and detective inspectors at the same time.

"That's fine," the man, John, says watching Jim bounce all over the lab. Jim knows it's a bit much for some people, drives most people up the wall, but John's just watching him with mild exasperation.

"So I guess, we'll meet like, at sevenish," Jim's putting all his files into his messenger neatly. He's nervous, wants to make a good first impression, wants to make a _solid _impression. Because everyone likes him at first, he's the kind of hyper flirty guy in a nice suit and then a little way down the road he would blink and they were _terrified_ of him. He hated that, but if the foundation was solid, maybe he could get a roomie that would last.

"Seven it is," John says mildly.

"Later," Jim wiggles his fingers at him.

* * *

><p>He sees Holmes standing at the machine; he's still not quite sure all the things it's supposed to do, other than destroy the electrical systems of London. That would be enough, all of London with no electricity? What delicious chaos. Holmes was crouched, playing with wires and Jim starts running toward him, lips pulling back into a snarl. The man wasn't expecting them that much is obvious and he tipped back in surprise at the sight of John and Jim charging him together. The man always did love doing the legwork, something Jim had been relying on, that he'd work on this particular problem instead of just relying on his minions. Holmes jerked, reaching in his massive coat and got tangled somehow in the machinery.<p>

Aggressive flashes of light pulsed from the machine turning Jim's eyes momentarily white blind, he was stumbling, stunned, Sherlock was stumbling as well trying to get away from the machine. Inspiration burst upon Jim and he saw himself gripping Sherlock, holding him still while the machine exploded and pulled them both apart into atoms. What a death, what a relief. Descending over the precipice together…

It was then the machine decided it had enough. With his vision whited out, the explosion rolled over him, lifting him. Fortunately he didn't seem to have his skin peeling off, or covered in a billion degree burn, it was just _force_; it hurt more to land than to be thrown. The air is thick with debris and the smell of ozone, there is a tingle in Jim's guts like his body might decide to eject his liver via his mouth at any moment. Not the most pleasant of sensations. After the flash of light and finally coming up to consciousness he's scrambling on his knees and sees Holmes trying to get to his feet. They looked at each other and then they were lunging at each other in desperation. Holmes said they needed each other, that without each other the boredom would be too much. Jim disagreed.

They didn't need each other; they needed to kill each other.

They were fighting, real fighting, Jim doesn't like to get his hands dirty, but he's not an idiot, he knows his line of work is dangerous. Jim tried a move that John showed him, cracking the sides of his hands against Holmes' neck. Gasping, contorting, Holmes still clung to him like some sort of evil barnacle. Then there was John performing a brilliant tackle, swiping him off Jim before he could even cherish Holmes' look of surprise.

While Jim was curled up catching his breath John pounded at Holmes. Deep in his calm place, as soon as Jim got his breath back he'd tell John to stop. As soon as he had his breath back. And maybe after he called Lestrade, it wasn't every day they caught an international mastermind. John had drawn his gun and had it under Holmes' chin. "Don't even move, don't even think about it."

Holmes' eyes went wide, his hands fell away, the back of his hands flat on the floor like he was about to get crucified and his mouth went moop. Which was Jim's first clue something wasn't right because Holmes' mouth never went moop. It only went in funny twisted lines.

"John?" Holmes asked in a small voice.

"Do. Not. Talk. Don't talk. Do not say my name." The control, the iron made Jim feel strong too, made him feel golden. Better than a right triangle.

Just as Jim was fishing for his phone when there was another tackle hitting John and plucking him off Holmes.

Then there were two Johns. Jim froze with his thumb on the call button.

There were two John's fighting each other, throwing punches kicking, holding Brownings on each other. They were rolling around on the roll swinging blows with intense hard breaths. They stop and stare at each other with identical expressions of disbelief. "You're defending him?" they ask at the same time.

"What the-" they say together.

"I can't-" they're completely in sync.

"It's impossible, you're not me," John is saying.

"Yeah, gathered that," John says in his typical John way. Moriarty is pretty sure his brain has exploded.

"John?" Jim asks with only a little concern.

"It's okay Jim," John says turning toward him automatically and now he knows which John is his, is the one he needs.

"You're not me," other John says again.

"I could guess that, there's no way this is possible. There's no way I'd go anywhere with Holmes," the last word isn't cold or angry or burning. It's heavy like a stone and calm like the inside of a hurricane. It makes Jim shiver a little to hear it.

"I could say the same thing about Moriarty," the voice is exactly the same and they both stare at each other with intense military focus.

"Amy Dean, secondary school, summer apples," his John says. Other John's eyes go wide, he turns an odd color and his nostrils flare like he's hiding.

"No one else knows that but me," the other John says. "I never told anyone about that."

* * *

><p><em>Brilliant.<em>

Jim preened.

_Amazing._

Jim purred.

_Extraordinary._

Jim knew he was rather clever, but being told, being recognized it was delicious. And now he had ruined it.

"I'm sorry," John was saying scooting away and Jim wanted to say _come back, come back, I'll be clever again._ It was a stupid thing to want, praise, no one ever got close to him, no one ever could. He always slipped up and scared them away. "I'm not really like that. I mean I'm flattered by your interest, but I don't want to lead you on."

"I didn't mean it like that," Jim tries to explain, because he didn't, the idea of sex makes him feel vaguely creeped out. "Just getting to know you stuff."

"Oh, sorry," John is flustered, awkward. "It's fine. I mean if you're gay, it doesn't bother me. It's fine. It's all fine."

"No, I mean I'm not, I'm just," he played with his lasagna. Feeling distressed. "I don't like to be touched, it's so. Personal."

John looked at him steadily, "Jim. It's all fine."

Somehow that was better than all the praise.

* * *

><p>"What happened?" Jim is speaking slowly, "this is impossible. This is Doctor Who stuff!" He's going into lecture mode without realizing it. His fingers are tapping together against his leg, his voice going into the slow and steady cadence. He needs a white board to do equations on. Texting statistics students to throw erasers at. "There are no such things as alternate dimensions."<p>

"I still haven't decided if I believe this or not," Holmes says, his eyes darting to John who's sitting crossed legged on the floor.

Every time Holmes twitches, John's eyes are on him, narrow and ready to take a kill shot. It's putting the man more and more on edge. Which puts Other John on edge, Jim was born on the edge, so, not much different except now he's still seeing stars from the explosion. Other John is also looking at him like he's the devil, its distracting.

The crazy thing is he can tell this Holmes isn't his Holmes; this Holmes is like a child. Moopy face and floppy petulance and bids for attention. His Holmes is a monster in the truest sense of the word. Treasuring carnage in a way that was disgustingly sensual, the only similarity between the two Holmes is superficial.

He sticks his hands in his pocket restlessly drifting into John's orbit, letting them bump together they do, just for a manly half second. Where is he in this world? Why isn't he with John? It's a very good question, one he wants the answer to later. "Are we not friends in this world John?" he says, his face creasing. "I mean I assume we're not," he made a gesture over his eyes. "You've got the hate eyes going on."

"No," Other John said with a strange finality. "You're not really a nice person here." Jim's brain is still blown from them not being friends, because Jim without John? Not possible.

"So what? I'm a rogue maths professor giving everyone bad marks?" he has to resist the urge to lean on the top of his John's head like he's a conveniently placed table. His head is simply at the perfect height.

Holmes head twisted toward him, curious and oddly pleased, "You're a maths professor?"

"Actually right now he's a Criminal Specialist," the Other John and Holmes' eyes snap to his John. "He solves crimes for the Yard, and the Met, and sometimes the government." His John is being fiercely loyal. "He's good at it too. Sometimes he doesn't even have to leave the flat."

Starting to bounce on the balls of his feet Jim pulls out his phone bashfully, but he's pleased, "Maybe we should call Lestrade. He's always after me not to get blown up ridiculously; I imagine it's the same with you."

"I should let you know that if Lestrade arrives, you will be arrested."

Jim stared at him with wide eyes, oh. Oh. In this world Jim really wasn't a nice person. "What did I do?" he asked softly. "Is it… bad? Very?"

Holmes eyes are narrow, "Extremely."

"Alright," Jim says and his John's eyes snap to him.

"Jim."

"No," Jim said firmly.

"But you didn't do whatever the other Jim did."

"I'm guessing if I'm a criminal then Mrs. Hudson isn't exactly letting us a room. We need somewhere safe and somewhere familiar. There's no reason to fear the Yard. John will be okay, won't he? I mean you'll put him up somewhere?"

"I'm not leaving you alone in jail. Lestrade, for one, would kill me."

Leaning against John's shoulder, Jim nodded, "Okay." He turned to Holmes and other John, both of which seemed to be watching them with a sort of fascinated horror. "Should I call or should you?"


	2. Chapter 2

Carl Powers was the first, Carl had laughed at him, laughed at his idea. _It's a good idea;_ he wanted to yell at him. _It's a good idea! It's better than any other idea you'll ever have._ Carl just laughs and laughs.

So he sneaks into the locker room and steals Carl's favorite shoes. He sees the care that Carl puts into those ridiculous shoes and he thinks, yes, that's what he'll do. Let's see him laugh quite so hard now. Let's see how you like having something you love belittled and taken away. He never tells anyone about what he did (or about the creeping dark that hinted about what he _could_ have done). Years later when John is exploring his old mess of files for his blog, he asks about the shoes too big for Jim's feet. Jim just smiles.

* * *

><p>Jim doesn't understand this world, it's all flipped. This isn't the world where Jim works with Lestrade on the tricky questions. This isn't the world where he has a meticulously kept flat at 221B Baker Street. This isn't the world where Holmes is a psychotic monster. He doesn't mind the cell. He slept on the wooden floor at home on occasion, and on the kitchen table, and in the bathtub once, it gave him clarity. He was more concerned about John's shoulder.<p>

It was silent but John wasn't breathing like a sleeping man. It was the breathing of a soldier who was lying still.

"Are you alright John?" he asked across the cell.

"Fine, go to sleep Jim."

"Are you-"

"Go to sleep Jim."

Jim sighed and got up off the floor taking off his coat, folding it up and sliding it under John's shoulder. It wasn't much but it was better than a thin mattress. There is some resistance, mostly John swatting at him but John always gives into him in the end. "Shut up."

* * *

><p>John had taken to heart what Jim said about touch, which was incredibly comforting. People always assumed because he was friendly he wanted to be manhandled. Carefully, like there was some sort of parameter fence around Jim, John would turn and deposit convenient tea when he was too far gone on an equation and not say anything when Jim had slept on the kitchen table again. Tables helped him think.<p>

The first time they touched more than just accidental brushings, touched on purpose Jim was kneeling in blood, not caring about his suit. It was a little girl. A tiny little girl. He wanted to reach down and take her tiny little hand, kiss each of her tiny little fingers like a benediction, give her five tiny little prayers to save her soul. It wasn't fair. She was so _small_ and _red._

He was roaring, he was going to kill the man who did this, his voice becoming part animal. The curling dark clinging in bits to his soul unfurling leaves turning toward his grief. His rage. There was a sound of someone behind him and Jim turned because someone had to suffer for this. Someone had to _suffer_. With two quick moments Jim was caught and brought in between John's knees back to front, fuzzy jumper arms around him like iron bands. "This isn't your fault Jim," John made whispered in his ear. And he was sure, so sure, Jim had to believe him. The darkness pulled back, atrophying under the light of John's comfort.

Lestrade held back forensics for a while until Jim could pull himself together. Jim rode home in the back of a police car, utterly drained, with his head on John's shoulder. He wished he was small enough for John to carry like a child.

"I hate fieldwork."

* * *

><p>His hand closed around John's wrist, he needed it, needed the touch. It grounded him; he needed John because without it his head started crawling dark and chaotic. It was awkward the first time when the Yarders saw it, the sudden fleeting brushes of shoulders and feet against each other, fingers across the flat of a shoulder. But he didn't care what they thought. Didn't they understand what it was like to have someone just love you and comfort you without wanting you to want them? Someone who understood what you needed and what you couldn't stand. It wasn't romance. It was a necessary thing, John Watson loved the war, but inside he was a rock, a calm, a pillar. Jim Moriarty loved order, but inside he raged. They were a good compliment.<p>

He laid John's hands on his head, they were dry and calloused and they grounded him better than the meds, better than the music, better than a new set of file folders, neat and perfect in their cardboard box, just waiting to be sorted, almost better than equations. "If we're here," Jim says, holding John's hands to his head. "Where's Holmes?"

Jim is stuffing his face with Dim Sum while trying to explain to John the equation for mapping blood splatter. He's delving into slightly more than basic geometry with John laughing (not like Carl, or Sue or David or Mr. Saunders or Ms. Devlin or Anderson, he's laughing in delight at Jim's cleverness) when Jim sees their suspect moving. "Look!" he shouts with a mouth full of dim sum gesturing with his chopsticks. He snatched his last piece off his plate and started hauling out the door, John in quick pursuit. It was good to run with John, they were close to the same height, their feet moving in tedium.

They finally came for him; it felt much more dramatic than it really was, Lestrade and Holmes looking at him solemnly through the bars. He felt he should do something for all their solemnity. Like drape a sheet over them. Ring a funeral bell. Boop their noses. Seriously how bad could the other him be?

Half an hour later Jim is sitting very quietly; Jim closed the folder marked Moriarty.

He pushed it away from himself.

Holmes started to say something in that imperious tone of his.

"Can I have a moment please?" he said softly.

Of course not, Holmes started clamoring off again.

"CAN I HAVE A MOMENT?" he roared eyes closed. Like that could make it all go away. Thirty some odd years of madness. There is a heavy silence in the room. He pressed his face against the cool table. He's not going to cry, he refuses to cry. He isn't going to cry. There will be no tears. He shivers a little. It's like discovering Holmes all over again, only this time he's wearing Jim's face.

After a long time he raises his head from the table and says very softly, "I would like to go home now."

"Home?" Lestrade asks, his hand is on Holmes' arm. The man is squirming distractedly hissing whispers at the detective inspector.

"I want to go to my world, where this isn't happening. Where this isn't real. There were _people_," his face feels blank, dead and cold, "in that file."

Holmes was studying him it was making Jim's skin crawl, "Are you about to cry? " He looked shocked, curious. Like he was some sort of new and unique experiment, an animal behaving oddly. Jim couldn't stand it.

"No," Jim said sharply. "I am not."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade says gently. "I'm sorry about this, but you had to know, had to understand why."

A good man, determined and hardy to his core, he understood standing on doorsteps and grief and small children with little tiny fingers, he understands Jim is mourning what his other self had become. "I'll help you of course, any assistance you may require. But I would prefer if John never saw any of this."

* * *

><p>Curling up on the sofa, watching TV eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, Jim waited patiently. It's all he can do not to run out into the night and grab John by the collar and drag him home. Because this is his home. 221b Baker Street. He needs Jim, he needs chases in the rain and being shot at and dealing with his best friend's occasional mental breaks and finding said friend draped across the kitchen table in the morning and <em>Moves Like Jagger<em> on repeat for an hour at 2 am. Jim shoved a serving spoon of delicious flavor into his mouth. Mint chocolate chip was _the_ flavor of self-pity this season.

He liked Sarah, she's pretty and funny and relatively well suited to John. She had done well with their Chinese adventure, one of the few times he stooped to actual field work. Usually it sufficed to shout orders at Donovan and Anderson while Lestrade rolled his eyes. Apparently, 'its muddy and these are new shoes' is not sufficient reasoning to yell things at Scotland Yard. He still doesn't like field work; it's messy, and not just because of mud. It's harder to get the job done when he sees their death sprawl. But he has to see the bodies, photographs alone won't do. One of these days he's go to arrive on a crime scene riding piggy back. If he could get John to agree.

John arrived with Sarah in tow; Jim peeked at them over the edge of the sofa arm pitifully.

"Hi Jim," Sarah said a little awkwardly.

"Hi," he said faintly. "How was the cinema?"

"About what I expected, but still funny," John said from the kitchen, getting things ready for tea.

They chatted, Jim could do chatting, but he stayed curled up in the corner of the sofa, working the cushions with his flexing toes in their striped socks. He even made Sarah laugh a couple times which would make John happy.

Sarah did her song and dance about work in the morning and then she and John kissed at the door. Jim stared dolefully at John's chair until he reappeared there. "Did you eat that whole bucket?" John raised an eyebrow.

Silence reined momentarily, "Perhaps." He found a serving spoon in the mouth was an excellent way to avoid saying something ridiculous.

"Just as long as you don't get sick," John said, giving him a funny look.

"You know," Jim said, still massaging the sofa cushions with his toes. "I could move into 221c."

John's head tilted in tannish puzzlement. "Any reason?"

"Well, it's a little moldy, being a basement flat," he tells his ice cream. "No place for a young couple."

He gives him a puzzled look; John is so very splendid, but at times a bit dense.

"You keep getting closer to Sarah," he says. "All roads lead to somewhere," he says.

Peering at him in fond indulgence, John gives him that stifling look, "I'm not going to leave you Jim."

Jim buries his face hard into the arm of the sofa. "I wasn't like this. I don't know, maybe I'm just bored."

"Sarah thinks you're gay for me," John laughed.

"Why?"

"Because whenever we come back from a date you're eating ice cream and moping in your sock feet."

Jim laughed back, but kept his face in the sofa. Sometimes he wished he was. "I hope I'm not getting you in trouble with her."

"She understands, don't worry about it. I'm sure Lestrade will come up with something soon."

"His name is Holmes," Jim whispers out of the blue.

"What?" John freezes.

"The man with the razor. The little tiny girl. His name is Holmes."

John is suddenly still, "When did you-"

"Today. I didn't want to ruin your date."

"You're an idiot Jim."

No response was necessary, but he got his hair ruffled out of it.

* * *

><p>"How much can you give?" ever to the point, Holmes. Besides, rude that. Lestrade seems to agree, the hand on Sherlock's arm tightens a fraction.<p>

"I don't know, there are some ways we're drastically different. I'm betting Moriarty," (because he wasn't Jim, he couldn't be Jim), "isn't a fan of children. And with John out of the equation there's a lot of things that may be up for grabs. But I know some places he might be hiding, bank accounts, aliases," he shrugged loosely. "All I ask is that John not be allowed to see this," he made an aborted motion toward the folder on the table like it was a flesh-eating disease.

"He doesn't have to-" Lestrade started in, ever the peacemaker.

"You're not in a position to bargain," Holmes snapped at him.

"Really? Where are all your leads then Holmes?" Jim snapped, angry and frustrated

"You don't want him to know what you're capable of doing," Holmes said trying to analyze. Analysis makes sense, this Holmes has only ever gone up against Moriarty, he's never met Jim before. Trying to understand the small pouting Irishman that was Jim and not Moriarty; he's trying to put Jim in the Moriarty box, but Jim doesn't quite fit.

"He knows what I'm capable of; I just don't want to confuse the issue. No one ever gets close to me," Jim said softly, looking at his hands. "No one ever will. They always leave, or die, or _exile _me. John is the only constant; I don't want him to know about this. This, Moriarty, isn't me, I don't want my John… contaminated by him."

"He doesn't have to-" Lestrade started in, ever the peacemaker.

Jim tries to empathize with Holmes, he knows this Holmes is not the Holmes that strung out four accidental deaths for Jim to try and solve and then tried to cut his best friend up into tiny geometric shapes. "I have some concerns though; Holmes was in the warehouse with us when his machine went off. He didn't seem to be at the warehouse, but you should probably watch out for him."

"Holmes?" Sherlock asks one eyebrow raising.

"You're not really a nice person there," Jim says with no little hate.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mycroft Holmes was murdered," Jim said into the stupid pink phone after rattling off his evidence. "The drowning wasn't accidental."

"E-e-excellent work d-d-dearest," the crying woman sobbed into the phone. "You can come and collect me any time."

He remembered what Holmes made the crying woman say, _he always wanted to control me. No one controls me anymore._

For a moment Jim felt sorry for Holmes, so bored, with no one to ground him down. But only for a moment.

"He started young didn't he?" Lestrade said softly, tense. "His own brother. You'd think he wouldn't want us to know about his early years."

His fingers brushed over the solemn plump face on the newspaper article, he wondered what that little boy could have grown up to be. "What he was doesn't have anything to do with where he is now. It's meant to be a threat." Holmes didn't appreciate Jim stepping on his toes.

* * *

><p>"You have a safe house in France?" Lestrade asked. They've been verifying and asking questions for the past two hours. Thankfully everyone has been good about the fact that Jim's only actually been sitting for ten minutes of that two hours.<p>

The task force is very small; the Yard's presence there was more to give an excuse to Sherlock's interest. Jim placed John's tea in front of him before sipping his own, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"I like the French and Japan is too crowded," Holmes was giving him an odd look at which Jim was turning up his nose. "I don't know how much of that will be still good," he said sipping away delicately. "The alias on top will probably still be okay. Thomas Descartes is my favorite."

He bumped against John's chair with his hip, without thinking and got a funny look. Like all the other funny looks he got, he ignored it. Nothing else to do really.

"You put down Carl Powers as a possible contact," Other John said slowly.

John rolled his eyes at Jim, "Why'd you put him down?" Trying to keep it light, soft sarcasm and just the right amount of put upon sighing. Keeping Jim calm.

"It seemed prudent," Jim shrugged. "We've had contact with him recently."

"He's a tool," John said. If they were at home in their flat, that line would be punctuated by John getting up to do something, make tea or shift around the self-multiplying stick notes with crime scene equations and evidence analysis. Something physical.

Everyone was staring at them. "Carl Powers?" Sherlock said very slowly.

"Jim went to school with him," said John, his face is tighter than the Other John's, he is solemn and immovable. That's good, Jim needs an immovable object. Still, looking between the two John's makes him a little sad. "He works as a banker now. We helped him with a case a while back."

"Not to be a broken record," Jim chimed in, not quite interrupting and getting a look from John for accidentally treading on a social nicety by treading on the end of John's sentence. "But have any of you looked for Holmes yet?"

* * *

><p>Loving Holmes' clever little game and hating himself for it, Jim felt himself cracking, aching. Life was terribly boring. Even with John, because John had his uses, telling Jim when he had gone too far, providing comfort. But mental exercise wasn't one of them. His eyes flashed to a small dark shape on the kitchen counter.<p>

Jim shrieked at the top of his lungs. Clamoring on top of the table. There was a lizard in the kitchen.

John came in gun drawn, still tense from Holmes, "What is it?"

Feeling incredibly guilty but not enough to get off the table. Or to stop shrieking.

"There's a lizard!" Jim shrieked.

"What?" John stared at him.

"A lizard! There is a lizard in the kitchen!" he gestured in its direction vaguely with the pot holder. He's keeping an eye on it. He can tell, it's tiny and evil.

"Jim," John says, he can feel John trying to be calming.

"It's on the counter John. _It is on the counter_."

"I see it," John sighs, putting his gun in the small of his back and started to look for a cup to catch it in.

"It's going to touch the cutlery John. It is going to _walk_ on the _cutlery._"

"The spoons will never be the same," John snarked. John doesn't see that it is evil and insidious and will creep in and make everything awful and dirty and wrong. It'll be tracking bacteria and contagions all over his just washed spoons and forks and knifes. He just had them just right, he was just settling in with them.

"I'll have to rewash all of them. I'll have to _bleach_ them."

"It's just a lizard Jim, it's tiny and harmless."

"It's unnatural. How many lizards are there in London? It's too cold and rainy."

"Maybe he was a pet, he's just looking for warmth and safety," the lizard got wise of the incoming glass and mad e a run for it. There were tea towels and shouted directions and muffled curses and an overturned chair.

"What are you two up to in here," Mrs. Hudson called from the entryway. The _yoo-hoo_ remains unspoken. The implication in her cheery greeting is not lost on Jim and the face he pulled is not a happy one. She might as well ask if they were fit for company.

There was a grunt from the kitchen floor and the caught lizard was held aloft.

"We are perfectly fine Mrs. Hudson. There was a lizard in the kitchen. John was good enough to – Oh John don't let it _touch _you."

"A lizard?" Mrs. Hudson asked, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"It is evil. John was so good to catch it for me," he says with as much dignity as grown man can muster after being driven to climb a table by a small reptile. He glared at it; he could swear it was glaring at him with hateful little blue-grey eyes.

"It must be so nice to have a nice strapping man around the house," Mrs. Hudson said to him.

John looked extremely uncomfortable.

"I," Jim said from his perch on the table, chin up, clutching the pot holder imperiously. "Oh, why bother."

He stomped off the table tensely.

"I'll be my room playing with Symtex."

"You better not be," John called after him.

* * *

><p>"Fine, Sherlock," the detective said tossing down her folder and giving him an impolite look. "But we can't just let you in and out at your leisure. I thought you were off with John, tracking leads."<p>

"I just needed to verify a few things with Jim," he smiled faintly at her, following her down the hall.

She swiped her card against the key pad. Holmes could have knicked that from her, but where's the fun in that?

"Thank you Donovan," Holmes smiled at her.

"Freak," she said rolling her eyes.

"Rude," he said sharply and slit her throat with one fantastic swoop of his straight razor. He loved the razor, an elegant calling card.

He felt some of her blood on his face and sighed happily. Poor stupid little creature. She had raised her hand at the last moment trying to deflect, but it was too late. She stumbled back, wide eyed, drawing her gun. Living with a predator like Moran has made him quick so he only dodges, the ceiling tile over his head exploding. Grinning at her he pinned her wrist to the ground, he doesn't press too hard, he doesn't want to damage her. Loving her for her small wet gasps.

He watched her until she died, if he took her apart he wonders what she would look like.

Enough of that, business was at hand.

It would be so boring without him, Jim, but there were more things he could try in this world, more games to play. He stepped in a loose figure eight in front of dear Jim's cell. Delightful, Jim was pacing like a little trapped tiger. "Dearest Jimmy," he grinned.

Jim's eyes narrowed at him darkly, "Holmes."

John was there too of course. Sherlock had such fun with him when he had caught him last. Nearly cost him, to be honest, he'd lost a few men, John was a fighter. "Hi Johnny," Sherlock tilted his head at him, his fake grin falling away smoothly. It caused fear for him to use artificial pet names. This was a fact maintained by psychological testing. He found it worked. Threw people into the automatic defensive. "It's delightful to see you again. Did you miss me?"

John's shoulder twitched. Excellent. It was so hard to tell with the good doctor, but it was good to know their last meeting was still... remembered.

"Look at you two sweet little bunnies all tied up in a box. It's Christmas."

John asks, because John is the one to ask, Jim already knows the answer, "Is that blood on your face?"

Gesturing loosely Sherlock sighed, observing dear Jimmy and his little toy soldier, "Some rude detective woman."

"You killed her."

"It was a mercy killing!" Sherlock bellows. "Her pathetic little brain wasn't worth the oxygen it used!"

There was a silence, not a normal silence, the silence of people.

There's John, John wearing a bomb and Jim can't do anything about it. A brain is a wonderful thing, but at the end of the day, it can't stop a bullet. Can't stop a bomb.

There's John, John with his arms around Holmes' insane giraffe neck forcing him to bend back, leaning against John to support the angle. Doesn't John know that Jim can't live without him? He'll go mad. He'll start stalking people and burning down houses or something else ridiculous.

There's John, John is scooping him up while the bomb explodes and then they're in the water where everything is muffled and they snug against the wall in the deep end. Blood is leaking around them like little ribbons in the water. They're leaking.

There's John in his hospital bed with his forehead stitched with five neat black stitches. He is watching the television and sleeping restlessly.

There's John at home in his own bed, and Jim can finally breath again.

Holmes turned, ready to scream at them, filled with his rage, but it faded in a delicious swirl. He gave them a real grin. Showing all his teeth, "Oh, delightful, just _look_ at you."

His gaze caught upon the second Holmes, who finally saw, who finally understood. Holmes looked himself up and down, feeling good with team Baker Street in their neat little barrel and a brand new playmate, "I bet you're all sorts of fun. I'd never get bored with _you_. Oh," he grinned, his whole body, grinned, leaning aggressively forward. "Another _John. _Did you get shot too?"

The cell door behind him swung open and out burst Jimmy and Johnny. He wonders what it is like to have a friend in a way that is distant and a little lonely. He draws and clips Lestrade in the shoulder, the bullet bounces, like a skipping stone and gets the constable behind the DI in the throat. So, not a total loss. Firing off quickly, before they can draw he drives them back, death is just another experiment, but he's not done playing yet. John tackles him to the ground and they twist together, spiraling. The strangled scream John lets out with Holmes elbows him in the shoulder is glorious.

He sighs at the jagged edge to it, swallowed down. How much is memory and how much is actual pain? Holmes spins them they are kneeling, John in front. Digging his hand into John's shoulder, hooking his fingers in, it hasn't been that long ago. Not that long since Sherlock tied John down and tried to understand him. The little doctor, little soldier, little _saint_, little puzzle. His finger dug down into the flesh around that lovely little not yet a scar and watched the sweat start on John's temples.

"So glad that you remember me, I put _such _work into you," Sherlock purred as John before turning to his other self, "Did _you_ then?" His other self is a pale weak sprawl on the floor, his face flat as glass, eyes huge. The other John, a fresh canvas he wants to map out later, after he's had a little hit and started a few projects, is staring, knows something is wrong. Knows his shoulder isn't that damaged from the war. Has such a strange expression on his face. Holmes can't look at him, can't look at him looking so strange "Have you put work into your own John? Because he deserves the attention. He is so _necessary_." His fingers are digging and his gun is under John's chin. John is such a fascination. How can one man keep another sane, it's impossible. So moral and so ruthless, that's Johnny. How can he do it? "I should also mention there's a bomb in the Met."

"Shoot him," John says. "Kill him anyway." There is sweat standing up on his face, but he is still a fighter. "Jim can defuse it."

Forgetting about Jim is a mistake; the little brat is on his back digging his teeth into Holmes' neck, his short nails scratching at his face. Holmes cocks the gun and Jim stumbles back sobbing. Whispering, "I'll kill you, I'll kill you. I'll _cut you. _I'll cut the heart _right out of you."_

"No you won't," Holmes sings back with a smile and drags up John with him. "Haven't got one." He's tempted momentarily to leave John on his knees and shoot him execution style, just to hear the satisfying sound that a skull can make under the discharge sound. The jerk of John's shoulder under his hand.

To be in control of that amazing power for that perfect euphoric moment.

But it wouldn't satisfy him very long; you can only kill a man once. He smiles at his other self, a lonely sharp shattered smile like broken glass kisses and barbed wire hugs. "It was a pleasure meeting you other self." The butt of the gun connects hard with the back of John's head and he goes soft in his arms.

Jim springs for him again and gets shot because frankly Holmes knows there is nothing that will stop Jim other than getting shot.

"I will let you lovely boys and girls find the bomb, you have half an hour, I'll give you a hint. It's big," he lets John drag in front of him like a human shield and slips away out the back door grinning.

What a delicious day. He doesn't feel bored at all.

* * *

><p>"But you need him, don't you?" Holmes said.<p>

Jimmy is looking at John like a little boy that just wants his mother to tell him she loves him. Like a little boy who's just trying to keep away the dark.

From what he can see, the parts of John's chest that aren't swollen red-pink and blood soaked are cut in a beautiful pattern. Cut like a stain glass window. A perfect repeat of not quite collecting lines like a rose window. At the center of it, surrounded by flushed skin, untouched by Holmes' razor is John's scar. John's beautiful scar. All knotted flesh and bravery. A sort of power and immortality that Jim couldn't understand, Holmes probably couldn't either. The scarification is beautiful, the lattice work as delicate as lace. It is what he would have done, Jim thinks in his shocked horror, his boundaries dropped at this impossibility. He gags once he realizes what he thought.

"He has been very good," Holmes purred. "He has been very strong. Sometimes they scream, but he hasn't," he looks at John thoughtfully. "What will you do after he dies?"

John is breathing slow and steady, looking at Jim. Looking in his eyes, "Run Jim," he pants. "It's okay. Run."

Jim just stares and stares. He feels funny inside.

"Beg," Holmes said to Jim; his eyes narrowed. No people pretend, only Sherlock looking cold and flat, but not bored. No he's not bored now is he, and Holmes is watching them. Watching him and Jim hates him, he HATES HIM, HE'S GOING TO RIP HIM APART. He needs John. He needs something to make his brain stay STILL. "Beg," Holmes says.

John is bleeding, solemn and still, but not for long, he's losing consciousness, he's dying. It's not fair. John is his friend. John is his best friend. JOHN IS HIS.

"It'll only get worse, the longer you wait," he lets the barrel of the gun nuzzle affectionately into John's side.

"Please," Jim says. "Please. Don't hurt him anymore."

"On your knees," Holmes says. "Say it like you mean it."


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade is grousing, darkly, he looks furious and betrayed, sitting on Jim's hospital bed . He is pale and looks like he's trying not to cry; Jim reaches out with one foot and presses it against Lestrade's leg in sympathy. Jim has always liked Lestrade, always trusted him. He's a good man, and Donovan's death is hanging heavy around his neck. Lestrade looks at him in surprise before looking away. Sitting in a chair with his head back is John, his John, ice pack on his shoulder. His hands are tight on John's arm, just holding on to him. Jim is unsettled; he can feel the hate in the room. The hate directed at him he's sure. It's heavy and churning and-

"Jim," John says, not opening his eyes.

"Just so," Jim exhaled and he was above it again. Floating above it, untouchable. "Are you alright Lestrade?"

Lestrade's knowledge of the human body and various aggressive pieces of slang is truly inspiring, although strictly speaking probably not physically possible.

There's an uncomfortable silence. Everyone's still staring at him, but he doesn't care as much anymore because he's got his equilibrium back. And his hands knotted onto John's arm. He had demanded John as soon as he was awake from surgery, screamed for him. He had said some things that may have made the staff cry. Wasn't proud of that.

Holmes is in the corner, in a little black ball. The bomb was of course about five seconds of child's play for him. His John was sitting next to him on the floor quietly, but Holmes obviously didn't want to be touched.

"I'm sorry," Jim said drowsy with medication. "I was afraid, and lazy. John and I will go and find Holmes. It's our fault he's here." The fact that he just had surgery on his shoulder is of no import. He and John match now, and that makes Jim insanely happy. Well, more insane than his usual.

Holmes began to shake.

The room was silent.

"He's not you," his John finally said, sighing and shifting a little. Jim leaned against John's shoulder, snuffling, almost asleep. "Don't get upset, just focus, he's nothing like you He's miserable," his John says, stretching restlessly. "He's miserable and lonely. He wants to die, but he's burning too brightly. You're happy, you've got purpose. I seem to like you at least."

Whatever John is about to say next is cut off by the advent of a tall impeccable man welding an umbrella. He looks unusually pale and harrowed. A little like Jim feels.

"Sherlock," says the man. "What-" He looks like someone has taken twenty years off his life in a single swoop. Jim knows what that feels like, Jim's crying dry tears, his eyes are struggling to produce, his face is aching. He doesn't know if it's from fear or sorrow or why. It seems to be the thing to do. John is there with one hand on Jim's face, coverin.

"He didn't do anything wrong," says his John just as Other John opens his mouth and starts to say something. The impeccable man stares at his John for a few seconds in open shock before his face goes solid as granite, almost as solid as John's.

"They're from another dimension or something like it," Other John says. He sounds vaguely confused, but still good and strong.

"Hello," his John says, tired but Jim just stays with his face surrounded in John. He doesn't like to be shot. "That seems to be the case. I'm Dr. John Watson; this is my friend Jim Moriarty, Criminal Investigation Specialist."

"Hi," Jim said pathetically.

"You didn't know?" Other John sounds surprised. "I'd have thought-"

"I was out of the country," the man interrupts. "And there were a few errors on my team that have been corrected."

"They brought someone else with them," Other John said, Jim couldn't see Other John's face, but he could imagine the look, lips pressed thin, concern for Sherlock, who was really Other John's Jim when it came down to it.

"The man who is not my brother," the impeccable man says, his voice is odd and pinched. "Sherlock," his voice is so gentle now. This must be Mycroft, Jim is pleased. The little boy grew up here. He's not really surprised because he's drugged up and Sherlock is after all not Holmes.

He sleeps for a while and then there are hands on him and he lashes out.

"Jim stop," says John's suffering voice. "You'll open your wound."

So naturally Jim goes back to sleep.

Jim is gently poking at the body with the stick he found. It's just the right size and length for poking. He lifted the coat, _oh! _that was nearly passing clever.

Finally Lestrade and John arrived on scene; John had been doing his kind and soothing doctor voice with one of the witnesses. As soon as John is in proper distance Jim's fingers and digging into his jumper sleeve. The grooves his finger had long since secured in the wool. "It was the nurse with the too blonde hair. Not a flattering color for a girl her age," Jim grinned. "Look at those sutures."

"Why are you poking the body with a stick?" Lestrade said.

"I'm not touching a dead body unless I have to, thank you," he said feeling a little testy.

"Hi," Jim nuzzled his cheap, icky, but better than nothing pillow.

"Hello," said Mycroft. "My name is Mycroft."

"I know. You're Sherlock's brother," Jim says sleepily before rolled over to yell at John. "John! I want your jumper."

"What? Why?"

"This pillow sucks."

"No."

"But-"

"No," John insisted.

"I was shot," Jim tried for sympathy.

"No. I don't even know where it is."

Jim dozed for a while, when he rolled back over there was impeccable looking man looking rather put out. "Hi," Jim said cheerfully. "I know you. You're Mycroft."

"Yes, we went through that before," one surprisingly strong hand pressed him to the bed. "I require some information from you."

"Don't hurt me," Jim yawned, "John will kill you."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly and lifted to someone behind Jim. His John was behind Jim. He was Jim. John was behind him. A simple equation.

"Kill is a little strong," John said and patted Jim's head gently.

"I want to find Holmes and stop him," Jim said fighting the pain medication. "He's not supposed to be here. He's not a very nice person." John's hand is warm and calloused on the side of his head.

"I would have to agree. And he is causing my brother undue distress. Am I to understand that the two of you are from some alternate realm in which you and your friend John work with the police to solve crime?"

"Yeah," John said for Jim.

"And … Holmes is your archenemies?"

The warm hand moved gently over his head, "Yes."

"Might I ask where I was?" his voice sounds strained and dangerous. It was a voice that could mess you up and knew it. Jim wouldn't want a voice like that, it would get so lonely. It also sounded prepared, that voice. Prepared for his darkness, but none of them were really prepared. He only thought he was ready.

"You died young," Jim said which was true. "You got sick, childhood disease." That was a lie. Jim could be kind. The narrow hand on his chest went still.

"I died," Mycroft said softly. Horrible weight and epiphany is writ across his face.

"It happens to the best of us," Jim said helpfully, but when he peered at Mycroft out of one eye it didn't look like it was helpful. "I'm not going to be much good for a little while, but John can tell you everything you need to know." There was a funny sound and Jim as feeling funny. It was a whirly clicky sound. He sighed and leaned his head into John's hand.

There was one hand on his chest and another on his head. It was like a hand sandwich. Jim giggled to himself. "I'm in a hand sandwich; the morphine pump must be going off again. John kill them if they give me more morphine."

"Am I killing everyone today then?"

"Yes, promptly. You smell like tea."

"Of course. He could hear John rolling his eyes. "Anything else your majesty?"

"Help Mycroft, also a pudding," Jim voice was soft and heavy, the hand on his head was nice grounding. Pulling him down into sleep. "Holmes will be planning a new game. Look in his safe places. You know where?"

"Yeah, I know," said John's voice from a far, far way away.

Most people would be uncomfortable in an institution, but John wasn't most people. The two of them sat side by side in the uncomfortable plastic chairs and looked at the young man sitting across from them. He's small, far too pale, with very dark eyes staring off into space.

Jim reached one narrow hand across the table, "Jamie? It's Jim."

The man tilted his head at Jim; his eyes were frenetic, twitching, too much behind them. He looked like Jim, only with a narrower face, a nose with a little more turn up. "Yeah?" he said absently, as if talking was something secondary and unimportant.

Jim bit his lip, maybe this was a bad idea. He had thought maybe… But no, this is a bad idea. John would see, John would know. He couldn't look at him.

"This is my friend John," Jim says cautiously. "If anything happens to me he'll take care of you. He'll come and visit you."

Jamie's eyes flicked to John and then away. At least Jamie wasn't catatonic this time. Jim had never felt ashamed of his brother, and he wasn't sure if this was quite shame. He wished he hadn't brought John here.

"It's nice to meet you Jamie," John said cautiously, extending his hand across the table to sit politely solitary. Jamie seized it lightening quick with both his hands, pressing down at the webbing between John's thumb and fore finger while looking at him intensely. _Studying_ John. One of the orderlies looked over and started to get up but John shook his head and them. Saying it was alright. Jim stayed a very small and still. Trying not to be seen.

Releasing John suddenly, Jamie looked at his hands for a moment and then he was gone again, missing in his head space. Jim usually stayed for a while, talking, because Jamie was his brother, but now this thing that he thought was a good then was potentially a _I never what to see you again thing_.

"What do we do now?" John whispered to him, trying to be awkwardly politically correct. John was usually more at ease. He knew what to do; it was Jim that made John awkward and unsure.

"I talk to him sometimes, sometimes he disappears into his headspace but I like to talk anyway. But we can go. I've introduced you."

John smiled at him gently and bumped his shoulder. "It fine Jim. It's all fine. You ever tell him about how we met our first adventure?"

Later in the cab Jim sat with his hands pinched tightly between his knees, narrow in his seat as a schoolboy in front of the headmaster's office. "My mother wasn't well. She had five of us, Jamie is the worst. But she kept forgetting she had us, she named us all James. Mum was clever though, didn't get caught for forever."

"So you have four other brothers named James?" Jim wasn't sure if the gentle laughter was the preamble of something worse.

"Yeah," Jim softly.

"Hey," John dropped his arm around Jim. "Its fine, I'm glad you introduced me to your brother."

Jim was still looking at his hands between his knees. John wasn't really overly touchy feely, but Jim did appreciate the effort. "It's just-"

"Jim," he sounded a little angry, Jim looked up at him, face set stubborn. "I said its fine. I'm not judging you or your brother. People have pasts, and mothers, and things in their families that are different than other people's families."

"My mother forgot the existence of her previous children. She was a madwoman."

John gave him a hard look that said _and?_

"You don't care," Jim left out a huge sigh of relief.

"You're an idiot," John said affectionately. "It's a little different, but doesn't change who you are. I said I'd take care of him if anything happened to you. Which it won't. And I don't care about the rest."

"It's fine," Jim said faintly. "It's all fine."


	5. Chapter 5

Jim gave Other John a sloppy, sleepy, drugged up hug. "Thank you for helping him. I'm glad he has you. You're a good man."

The one armed hug was awkward and not really wanted, but there wasn't much John could do about randomly lunging Irishmen in hospital gowns. John disengaged slowly; Jim slipped his arm off John's neck, tucking it under his pillow for warmth as he Jim fell back into bed. Face pulled sorrowfully Jim cuddled his awful pillow, hands underneath for warmth and comfort. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is so hard for you. I wish I looked different, or acted different or was someone else. I don't want to cause you pain, you're the only one I can rely on John."

John was stiff and awkward and patted him on the head. "It's fine. It's fine. I'll just go and report back to the others."

Snoozing for a little while, letting the morphine work out of his system, he dug himself into his bed with his good shoulder and waited.

When he was finally awake, really awake, he cracked an eye open, check to be sure the room was clear. When he saw it was he pulled Other John's gun out from under his pillow and checked the magazine.

He still had the touch.

Now all he needed was a nurse.

* * *

><p>Jim let the phone ring, fingering his slipover; it was a nice shade of blue, and super comfy for endgame conversations with one's flatmate.<p>

"Jim?" John's voice interrupted the ringing, "Sorry I was finishing paperwork."

"I found him; I know where he'll be tonight."

John didn't need to ask who 'he' was. There was only one 'he.'

"I'm going with you. I can get out in half an hour."

"What if something happens?" Jim clung to the phone.

"Something's going to happen anyway, might as well be there to try and ease the internal hemorrhaging."

* * *

><p>"I suppose it would be terribly cliché to ask how you found me," Sherlock said drily, Jim's arm closed around his neck, forcing him back so Sherlock had to rest his weight on his neck on Jim's shoulder, putting him off balance. John could break a man's neck from this position.<p>

"You're your own enemy here, so you can't go to your usual haunts, you have to go where your enemy feels safe."

"The pool, you're first little act of rebellion. The first time you stood up for yourself."

Everything was blue and quiet. The sound of the pool water lapping, it was cool and Jim could think. His arm tightened. His other shoulder is crater of pain, but it is unimportant.

"You're not a killer dearest," Sherlock says neck twisted back, back, bent to accommodate the height difference. It's Jim that has him now, not John. John is back away safe.

"This is what you want isn't it," Jim snarled into his ear. "This is what you really want. John had it right."

"John again! Everything's John! You are _fixated_."

"Oh," Jim snarked. "Are you _jealous_?"

"Of what? You're a mad little child."

"Maybe, but what a happy little boy am I. Shall I Holmes? Shall I give you a hand? ' Dearest Jimmy, help me die?'"

Holmes went wild, swinging freely, Jim swung his foot up and broke Holmes left leg at the knee.

"What do you want Holmes? I'm not above a little mercy." He thought he would have a harder time with this, but he's feeling no pain. His head is in a whole other place drugged up on desperation and morphine and a little madness.

"Nothing helps," Holmes voice has no emotion, it's not even cold. It's just a deep vibration, all inflection slaughtered with a straight razor. "The cocaine doesn't help, the crimes don't help. It's. All. So _boring_."

Jim releases Holmes, letting him collapse on the floor, lying there, a little dead before he's up, snarling, leaning to his side with his broken knee.

He doesn't stop fighting of course.

He's burning too bright.

Jim smiled, "I won't let you hurt John again."

* * *

><p>Jim and John, once more into the fray.<p>

* * *

><p>He's beating at the pale flesh with his fist. He needs John, where did he leave John, where's Holmes hiding John? (Stop, stop, stop too much blood.) He had John's gun in his hand but he couldn't find John. He needed John. Who else didn't mind him sleeping in the bath tub and poking dead people with sticks and going dark and crawling and creeping. His fingers scrabbled against the ribs under Holmes' clothes, trying to get to the heart. Trying to get to anything. Someone is sobbing. He wishes they would stop, it's an awful sound and he needs to think, he needs to figure out where Holmes has hidden John.<p>

Someone was behind him, pulling him back, pulling away

"John," he weeps gripping the wooly jumper in his red hands. "John." He's begging. He doesn't know what for, but he wants it.

"It's okay, I'm here I'm not going anywhere."

"I love you so much John, you're my best friend," he said sobbing helplessly into John's shoulder fingers searching out holes in the knit he can use to grip John to him.

"I know," John is rocking him gently, it's distracting but the thought is nice. It comforts him.

"I found you John; I found where he hid you. You're right behind me, what a clever spot, why didn't I think of that? I'll always find you, no matter what," he mutters sleepily, so happy and warm. "Then we'll always be together."

The rocking stutters for a moment and then there's John's gentle voice, soft like a whisper, "I know Jim, I know."

"What's wrong with him?" says a voice from above.

"He's fine," John says in a voice that says he is obviously messed up right now, _idiot_. Haven't you ever seen a mental breakdown before. "He's just tired, just a little tired." There are thin lips pressing into the top of his head, the rocking doesn't stop, the strong arms don't leave. It's like being a child again and he wishes he was so he wouldn't have to deal with this.

"I'm sorry," Jim whispered .

"Don't be an idiot," John said.

* * *

><p>This is the point of change, the last flash back. The point after Jim decided he could kill a man and before the point he actually did. The point of a flash of light before he stepped through the mirror darkly. After a thousand moments that made him good. There are no more flashbacks, Jim has been thrust forward, made to see, there is only moving forward.<p>

* * *

><p>"Are you feeling better?" Other John asked gently.<p>

"'M fine," Jim nibbles a thumb nail staring off into space. He had always known he was a little off, but he had never killed anyone before. He had suddenly found that he was much saner than he had ever thought. Surely someone who was mad wouldn't be so disgusted with murder. Oddly enough that made the act almost worth it in and of itself. They weren't calling it that of course seeing as Jim had made their lives so much more convenient.

The two John have been getting on well, laughing over lagers like two blokes. They know each other's in jokes and they're comparing each other's geniuses and giggling like best friends. Every once in a while they'll shake their head and say, 'no, that's not funny, we shouldn't laugh,' but then laugh anyway. Jim alternated between staring off into space and smiling fondly at them.

John had killed for him before so this was just a fair trade.

"Mycroft said the doohickey's almost ready," Other John said in a highly scientific way.

Jim shivered faintly before coming to himself, "Of course, thank you." He feels like someone took him and smoothed him out nice and thin, like a shoelace and then tied him in knots. As long as the knots hold until he gets home he'll be fine. Perhaps he and John can go somewhere for a few months. Somewhere quit in the country where he can start a new book, nothing to do with criminology, perhaps something on organizational structure of complex formulas? That would be something fun, a pleasant little write up.

"Jim, Jim-" John, no Other John, was saying, looking concerned.

"What?" he left his thumb alone for the time being and looked up at Other John.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I _killed_ a man," Jim said a little hysterically.

"He wasn't a very nice man," John said stoutly.

Pressing his eyes closed very tightly, "I know."

"Jim," John, his John, said in that tone, his army voice, the voice he could rely on. Jim stood up immediately, his fingers snagging in John's jumper.

"Time to go?" he smiled thinly, clenching his fingers into the weave.

"Yeah," everything showed on John's face. The exhaustion of having to tend to Jim in his weak times and keeping up with him when he was running on normal speed, that sweet, generous love. Jim could never have a better brother in arms, a stronger bond of fraternity. "All we have to do is stand there and look pretty."

"It'll be easier for me of course," Jim tried to joke thinly, looking to John for confirmation.

John laughed, a strained version of his usual giggle, but a laugh is still a laugh. "Let's go home Jim."

He smiled a real honest smile. "Yes, let's."


End file.
